


No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

by gray_autumn_sky



Series: Historical Fiction AUs [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Salem Witch Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-05 18:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16372649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gray_autumn_sky/pseuds/gray_autumn_sky
Summary: Set in Salem, Massachusetts during the Salem Witch Trials.When Regina Mills is accused of being a witch, Robin, a stranger to her, refuses to let her hang.





	1. Chapter 1

Regina Mills sits in the dark, damp jail cell, staring out at the nothingness before her, too numb to even cry.

She’s vaguely aware of the others there--guards in an adjacent room, prisoners like herself chained in their cells and somehow asleep--but she can’t quite feel their presence, as though she’s already left this world.

She knows that it’s raining outside--she can smell it and hear it. The droplets tap at the open stone window, pooling on the sill and spilling down over the edge and trailing down the wall, dripping down and forming a little puddle beneath the window, ticking like a clock.

They’d given her a thin dress made of burlap and grayed with overuse and lack of washing to wear, and her hair was wound into a tight bun at the back of her head, tied with twine and leaving her neck exposed. Her jaw trembled as she cowered on the stone bench in the corner of her cell. Her hands were bound in shackles behind her and her feet were tied together with rope that was wet from the rain, rubbing against her skin and rubbing it away. It should have burned, and maybe it did, but she couldn’t feel it anymore--just like she couldn’t feel the cold.

It was late in October and the rain chilled the air even more than usual, and in her cell, she didn’t have as much as a blanket to keep her warm and hours ago, she’d stopped even trying to warm herself, knowing that it didn’t matter and if she died in the night from cold or exhaustion or even just by sheer will, it’d be for the better.

_Guilty._

_Guilty and sentenced to hang at dawn._

It played again and again, over and over, behind her eyes and the words rang in her ears.

She could still feel their hands on her, holding her down and removing her clothes for the examination in open court. She hadn’t looked at any of them as it happened--not as they pointed at blemishes and scars, and asked her to recite random passages of scripture she was far too scared to remember. They pricked her with pine needles and touched hot metal to her skin--and it seemed her most natural reactions to these tests only proved her guilt.

The final test before her trial had been the worst, and for a moment, she thought that would be the end, that she’d die right then and there. Still naked, they tied a rope around her waist and bound her hands behind her back. They led her out of the church and to the water, and the closer she got to the coast, the harder she tried to dig her heels into the sand--but every time she tried to stop, they shoved her forward and whipped her back. Finally when they reached the coast, they led her down a dock that suddenly felt like a plank, and spun her around so that she was facing them--and before she could even muster the courage to plea for her life, they shoved back and stood on the dock, watching as she struggled in the water.

For a moment, she sank down and water filled her lungs. Her feet kicked and her shoulders rocked back and forth, her movements frantic as she tried to loosen the rope--and when she finally succeeded, her chest ached and her head was dizzy as she swam up the surface. But as she struggled for air and tried her best to stay afloat, a gasp shuttered through the crowd standing on the dock.

 _A witch_ , they’d said.  _It’s true!_

She didn't have time to comprehend it, and then next thing she knew, they were dragging her roughly from the water.

What happened next was a blur, and in so many ways it felt a dream--like it hadn’t actually happened.

But she knew that it did.

They let her get dressed, but not in the one she’d been wearing that morning. No, they dressed her in prison rags and told her she should be fortunate that they weren’t going to cut the hair from her scalp and let her bleed out--and when they bound her wrists with tight rope that cut through her skin and rubbed against the open wound, she wondered if what they did was worse.

She barely listened as they presented the evidence of the tests--and when she turned away from the judge who’d already decided her fate, she caught the eye of her husband, Leopold Blanchard, and a rage filled her.

Her jaw clenched as she remembered how he’d pointed and called her a witch, how he hadn’t even allowed her to explain what had actually happened. His daughter, Mary Margaret, stood behind him, her green eyes wide as she watched in horror--and Regina found herself wondering if she regretted her accusation or if her the look of shock was all for show.

She wondered if it’d all been a set-up.

It was no secret that her marriage was not a happy one or a godly one, and it hadn’t quite been what either of them had anticipated on their wedding day. They were each sold something that wasn’t quite real. She’d been promised a good, easy-going husband who only wanted her as a mother for his young daughter, and he’d been promised a good, god-fearing wife who’d obey his every request. But his indifference was cruel and nothing she did was ever good enough, and for him, she was strong-willed and a burden.

But still, she hadn’t expected it to end this way.

She hadn’t expected to walk into her step-daughter’s room and see a man hovering over the bed. She didn’t know who it was or what he wanted, but she knew that he could be there for no good reason. He was there to do harm, whatever that might mean. So, she grabbed a silver candlestick holder from the dresser and let out a cry, drawing attention away from Mary Margaret and drawing it toward her. The man turned and she thought she saw the glint of a knife, so she screamed louder and pummeled him with the heavy bottom of the candlestick holder. Though it was dark, she could see a bloody gash above his brow, and when she struck him again, he stumbled back, getting blood on the girl’s blanket as he rolled across the bed and lept toward the opening window. He left her there, standing bloodied in the bedroom, still screaming.

Mary Margaret cried out, shrieking as she scurried off the bed as her father entered the room. She hugged his legs and looked on in horror--and when he asked her what had happened, her eyes shifted to Regina.

_Witch._

_She’s a witch!_

She tried to explain, but no one would listen--and while what they called her wasn’t necessarily untrue, it didn’t mean what they thought they it meant.

But they wouldn't listen, so she’d stopped trying to making them, hoping that if she just played around and did what they asked, the truth would come out and she’d be exonerated.

That hadn’t happened though, and at the end of it, when she pleaded for them to just hear her out and listen, they listened to everyone but her.

Leopold told them he always knew, deep down, that she was wicked; he always suspected her a sinner, but as a good man he wanted to give her the benefit of doubt, wanted to see something in his wife that simply wasn't there. But after a time, it became hard to ignore. She didn’t repent as she should and she was lax in her church attendance, and he could smell the incense she burned. Again, she tried to explain how harmless it all was, but he didn’t want to hear it--no one did.

They gagged her then, in an effort to silence her, and she nearly choked as they tied the kerchief around her mouth--and when they did, all she could think of were the times that Leopold bound her and locked her in an attic closet as punishment for her evilness. Her heart beat faster as she thought of that darkened closet and quickly her relief would fade when the door opened to see Leopold standing there with a bottle of holy water and his bible.

_Guilty._

_Guilty and sentenced to hang at dawn._

Those were the words that snapped her back into the present moment, and it took her a minute to understand what they meant--and when she did, she came to realize that her life was over. Then, from that moment on, they repeated over and over, echoing in her ears again and again in an almost deafening way.

And now, all she could do is listen to it as she sat idly and waited to die...

“Hey…”

Her brow furrows as she looks toward the window.

“HEY!”

Swallowing hard, she holds her breath. Her mind was playing tricks on her—it had to be, because no one in their right mind would be out in this rainstorm, risking their life to come and simply say hello to her. No one was that stupid.

“Hey! Regina Mills!”

Her brow arches. Maybe someone was and she considers that maybe it’s a hallucination, that maybe the voice is just in her head and maybe--

“Are you Regina Mills?” the voice calls again as a little pebble sails in through the open window. “Hey!” Her brow arches as she stares at the pebble--she may be an accused witch, but even she doesn’t have that sort of power, and when the voice calls her name again, it’s clearer and more direct, and in an odd way, the stranger’s voice is almost comforting to her.

Getting up, she moves carefully and slowly toward the window, mindful of the rope and chains that bind her wrists and ankles. She narrows her eyes at a hooded man standing beneath the window--and as she appears at the the window, he steps in a little closer. “You’re Regina Mills?”

“I… I am,” she murmurs. “Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Again, her eyes narrow. “I think it does.”

“We don’t have time to exchange pleasantries when--”

“You know who I am. It’s only fair that I should know who you are, too,” she says, sighing at her own defiance as her arms cross over her chest. “Besides, you came to me to--”

“To break you out of here.”

She blinks. She had to have misheard that--but before she can question it, he steps in and pulls back his hood, revealing bright blue eyes and a kind smile hidden behind a mask.

“How?” she asks. “The guards--”

“Are they near?”

“No,” she admits, looking behind her and suddenly feeling nervous. “But--”

“Well, I won’t very well be going through the front door.”

Again, she blinks, her eyes focusing in on the bars on the window as her heart beats wildly in her chest and a thousand questions swirl thought her head--yet, the one that comes out of her is the least important of all of them. “Surely, you don’t think I’ll fit through--”

His brow cocks. “I’m going to pick the lock.”

“Oh--”

“Keep a lookout, alright?”

“But, I don’t--”

“Look,” he cuts in, looking around himself as his voice drops an octave. “We don’t really have time for explanations right now, and with all due respect, you don’t really have many options at this stage of things, do you?” He pauses as her jaw tightens--and though defiance prickles at her, he makes a valid point. Even if she were caught escaping and even if he was a madman, neither of those things matter because at dawn, she’s sentenced to die, and she has nothing to lose by trusting him. “I’ll work the lock, just… make sure no one comes,” he says. “My goal is to get both of us out of here alive. Please don’t make that any more difficult than it already is.”

Nodding, she moves to the front of the cell, fumbling with her fingers as she cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of the guard--and she breathes out a sigh of relief to find him sleeping by the hearth.

“No one’s--” She stops, her voice halting as the masked man grins and the window swings open. “I can’t believe--”

“I mean, it’s not witchcraft, but--”

A little grin tugs onto her lip as he reaches through the window and her eyes fall to his hand--open and reaching for her--and for a split second, she hesitates and looks back at the guard sleeping just beyond the cell. She has no reason to trust this masked stranger and this masked stranger has no reason to help her, but it’s not like she has anything left to lose. So, she takes hold of his hand and climbs up onto the stone bench beneath the window, letting him pull her up and through it. He pulls an arrow from the quiver on his back and slices it through the rope that binds her, then no sooner than her feet are free, he’s picked the lock on the shackles on her wrists--and before the shackles fall to the mud at their feet, he grabs her hand and they steal away together into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

The thrill of the escape didn’t last long.

He held her hand as he led her into the woods, weaving between trees as they moved deeper and deeper into the dark woods and away from the center of town. Still, even when they were far away enough not to be seen or heard by anyone from the village, he held her hand–and she found that she was glad for it. It wasn’t that the stranger’s hand brought her comfort or even that she was afraid; she didn’t worry about getting separated or what would happen if someone caught a glimpse of her running through the woods, but she was glad because if it hadn’t been for him dragging her along, she’d have collapsed long ago.

The mud was thick and her bare feet stuck in it, making each step a struggle. The rain was icy cold and the wind swept up underneath the burlap dress that hung on her shoulders, chilling her to the bone. She hadn’t quite realized how tired she was either, or how weak she felt from lack of food and water, and it wasn’t like she had a destination in mind; and, of course, if she collapsed and died in the middle of the forest, she’d be no worse off than she would’ve been staying in her cell.

Her heart pounds and her head is dizzy, and she feels like she’s having some sort of out-of-body experience–then, before she can even so much as chuckle at her own private joke, the masked man stops abruptly.

Looking around, she wipes the rain from her face and squinted–and when she didn’t see anything other than trees around then, she looked to him with a questioning gaze.

“Why–”

“The rain’s getting thicker.”

She blinks. “So?”

“I can barely see a measure in front of us.”

“What’s there to see?” she asks, panting as she again pushes the rain from her face. “Besides–”

“Come on!”

He tugs her away from where they’d stood, in the opposite direction and she squints in an effort to see where he’s taking her–but still, all she sees are trees. She wants to ask, but she can’t quite catch her breath enough to question where he’s leading her or why  _this_ direction is better than the previous–and then, once again, he stops suddenly and this time, he grins at her.

“We’ve arrived.”

Blinking, her eyes settle on a broken down, dilapidated little cabin that’s no more than a mound of rubble of wood and stone, and as she looks to him, he gives her hand another tug and leads her around it.

“The cellar’s still in tact,” he tells her, finally letting go of her head as he reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a pin and jamming it into the lock. “It’s dry… well, mostly.” She nods as she watches him, her brows arching up as the lock pops open. “You first.”

“How do you know about this cellar?”

The masked man sighs. “I’ve… stayed here once or twice when–” He stops, sighing in frustration as the rain pours down around him, dropping from his eyelashes, nose and chin. “Can we talk about this at another time?”

He takes her hand again, but this time she pull back, and her feet plant down in the mud as her stomach lurches as she thinks of the dark closet that Leopold used to lock her in. “How do I know that–”

“I’m not going to murder you?” he asks. “Well, I suppose you don’t. But if you don’t trust me and get into the cellar,  _someone else_  will.”

“But–”

He shakes his head, pointing up to the sky. “It’s nearly daybreak and I’m sure  _someone’s_ discovered your empty cell by this point.” She shifts nervously on her feet, biting down on her lip as she looks to the dark cellar. “How long do you think it’ll be before a search party is sent out?”

“I don’t know, but–”

He doesn’t give her the opportunity to finish. Instead, he tugs on her hand, dragging her toward the cellar and, in spite of her own worries, she finds herself stepping down onto the first step–and as soon as she’s down far enough, he pulls the cellar doors closed and darkness surrounds them.

She reaches the last stair and takes a few tentative steps, holding her breath and ignoring the fact that breathing is suddenly difficult for her. She closes her eyes, pinching them shut as she take a few more steps, the sound of the closet door echoing in her ears after Leopold’s eerily cool tone tells her to repent. The sound of rustling interrupts her thoughts, and she’s glad for it–and then, a moment later, a flame sparks.

Her eyes widen a little as she turns toward the light and she sees the stranger holding a torch of bound up pine branches–and a little grin tugs up at the corner of her mouth when she sees that he’s pulled back his hood and removed his mask, revealing a strong but relaxed jaw, glittering blue eyes, and dark blonde hair that curls a bit in the front.

“Where are we?”

“That’s a secret.”

“Is it?” she asks, her brow arching as she looks around–and then, her breath catches. They’re in some sort of lair. She takes a few steps away from the light, looking at a golden brooch pinned to a rope that hangs from the ceiling and a jewel-handled cutlass lies propped up against the wall. “What is this place?”

“Uh, just… a place I come to occasionally and–”

“Where did all of this come from?”

“Here and there,” the stranger tells her, shrugging his shoulders a devilish little grin edges over his lips. “You know…”

“I don’t, actually,” she says, her shoulders squaring as she recognizes a brass box that’s passed around at church on Sundays. “I…”

“I’ll kindly remind you that I just broke  _you_ out of prison,” he tells her. “That  _you_ were on death row.”

She blinks as she looks up at him. “And what does that–”

“Well, from one alleged criminal to another–”

“I’m not a criminal,” she tells him, her voice full of indignation as her shoulder square. “I’m–”

“A witch.”

At that, she pouts. “And you’re a thief.”

He shrugs, unbothered by the title. “Well, I’m more than that, but–” He laughs out and shakes his head, and it makes her feel a strange both uneasy and calm. “I’ve just realized I know so much about you and you know nothing of me.”

“How?” she asks, taking a step forward as her eyes narrow with curiosity. “How do you know anything at all about me? Why would you–?”

“Risk everything to break you out?” Her shoulders relax as she remembers that he’s on her side, and she nods. “Well, I know that you’re innocent.”

“Even though I failed every test?”

“Those tests are assinine and…” Shaking his head he sighs. “Those tests can’t account for everything.”

“Can’t they?”

Again, he shakes his head. “I’ve, uh… I’ve been watching.”

“What?”

“The man who broke into your home–”

Warmth rises up the back of her neck and her eyes wide. “That was–”

“Not me.”

“But–”

“I’m not the only thief in Salem.”

Her eyes darken and she looks away, remembering the draft she’d felt from beneath Mary-Margaret’s door and how she’s privately chided the girl for leaving her window open as she reached for the doorknob to the girl’s room–and she also remembers the way her heart had practically stopped as she saw a man standing over the girl’s bed. “I… don’t think he was a thief.”

“Each of us has our own agenda.”

“And yours?”

“I take what I can and pawn it off in another village, and–”

“What do you do with the money?”

“Whatever I want.”

“And what do you want?”

He grins. “Right now, I want to keep your neck intact and–”

“No need to be so graphic.”

He blinks. “That was hardly–”

“So, this intruder…”

“Wants a bit more than just some sparkly items that some governor’s wife will drool over.” He sighs and takes a few steps deeper into the cellar. “You aren’t wrong.”

“Would he have hurt her?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But he’d been watching the house for awhile and–”

“That explains the missing pitcher.”

The man’s eyes narrow as he sits down on a little bench. “Pitcher?”

“Two days ago, a porcelain pitcher went missing and–” Her eyes press closed as she remembering Leopold’s firm grasp on her arm, his fingers pressing into her skin hard enough to leave bruises beneath her dress as he dragged her up the stairs and told her she was evil. “We didn’t know what happened to it. It was just… gone.”

He hesitates for a moment, and she watches as he draws in a breath. “He blamed you.”

She feels her brows arch and her eyes widen. “How–”

“I told you. I was watching.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, her eyes casting down as her cheeks flush, wondering what exactly he saw, but too afraid to ask. “I didn’t–”

“That was the point,” he interjects. “For no one to know.”

She nods, and suddenly, her chest feels tight, and she can’t bring herself to look at him. She’s embarrassed, mostly, she realizes, and though it’s stupid, she prided herself on her secrets–prided herself on never looking weak to anyone and going through life with an air of importance and power. But this stranger knew the truth. He’d seen things he wasn’t meant to see, and he knew how vulnerable she was–and she hated that.

“I’m Robin, by the way,” he tells her, his voice softer as he stands up and moves slowly toward her. “I was… I was at the trial, too. I know that you’re innocent and, what’s worse, I know that you were framed. Your husband knows it, too.”

At that, she looks up. “How could–”

“He saw the intruder.”

“He said he didn’t. He told  _everyone_ –” Her voice cracks as tears fill her eyes, and Leopold’s testimony echos in her ears. “He said–”

“He lied.”

“And… and… Mary-Margaret.”

“I think… I think she thinks she’s telling the truth, and I think she wants to please her father.”

“She always does.”

“She’s a child.”

Regina shrugs. “She knows more than she lets on. She sees it all and… looks the other way.”

“She’s a  _child_ , Regina.”

She looks up at sound of her name, and nods. “So, that’s… that’s why you broke me out?”

Robin reaches for her, gently taking her arm and leading her to the bench–and it’s not until she sits down that she remembers how tired and cold she is. “I know people,” he tells her. “People in other villages, people at other settlements. I know Natives and–”

“What?”

“They’ll help you.”

“Oh,” she murmurs. “I… I can’t imagine…”

“We’ll stay here until dark. No one will look here.”

“Not even with the open lock.”

“No,” he murmurs. “Our tracks will have faded from the rain and so will our scent, and…” Robin chuckles softly. “If you were here, it’d only make sense that the owner was harboring you.”

Regina’s head tips to the side as he sits down beside her, again smiling at her in a way that makes his blue eyes sparkle. “Someone owns this… pile of rubble and…”

“Gold.”

“Gold,” she repeat. “You mean…”

“The man who sentenced you owns this property. It was his first home before… well… before he rose in power and status, and before he moved into the village.”

“I see.”

“And you know how these angry mobs are… always looking for any connection, any reason to accuse.”

Nodding, she grins. “That’s true.”

“So, we’ll be safe here until night falls, then we’ll be on our way, and  _you’ll_ be a free woman.”

“Free…”

“Not trapped in a marriage to a cruel man. Not trapped under his watch or the watch of the church. You’ll be free to… do as you please and…”

“And practice witchcraft?”

He grins. “Well, if that’s what you choose–”

“It’s not all cauldrons and sacrificing and–”

“So, it’s true.”

She hesitates, biting down on her lip. “You didn’t anticipate being trapped with a real, live witch, did you?”

“That’s actually  _exactly_  what I anticipated.”

Her cheeks flush and suddenly, she’s glad for the dark–and then, when he sinks down beside her and drapes his arm over her shoulders, she can’t help but turn into his embrace and let him hold her, suddenly very aware of how cold she is. He’d been wearing layers, and he’d peeled the first one off, revealing a thick woolen cloak that’s mostly dry. She edges closer as his arms wrap around her, his hands rubbing over her back in an effort to warm her up. Her eyes close and she cuddles closer, feeling safer than she should in his hold, and as she feels herself floating toward sleep, he shifts to blow out the pine needle torch, sending the cellar back into darkness–and her last thoughts before giving into her exhaustion is that, for the first time, she’s confined to a dark, small space, yet she feels completely at ease.


	3. Chapter 3

She slept, but she hadn’t slept well - and now, she was antsy. **  
**

The cellar was dark, but not pitch-black as it’d been the night before. Little strands of light snuck between the boards of the cellar door, brightening it just enough for them to be able to see–just enough for her to see how calm Robin was and how unbothered he seemed by the uncertainty the day brought.

She’d never been good at sitting still, and it unnerved her to watch him whittle away at a branch, slowly but surely turning it into an arrow.

So, she paced–back and forth, back and forth–along the short length of the cellar, her mind spinning.

Now that she was dry and rested, she no longer had a distraction–all she could think of was that she was living on stolen time, and that any minute the cellar doors could burst open, that she’d be discovered and killed right there on the spot.

“Would you  _please_ stop pacing?”

She blinks as she looks to Robin, watching as his knife skims down the thin stip of wood as he slowly twirls it between his fingers. “It’s not like there’s much else to do.” She sighs, her hands settling on her hips as her jaw tightens. “You’re not exactly a riveting conversationalist.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, his voice low and hushed. “I’m sorry I didn’t come up with a more entertaining escape plan.” Her eyes roll and her tongue clicks. “And  _I’m sorry_  I’m not willing to risk both of our lives talking.” He gestures to the cellar door above them. “I’m not sure that you’ve considered this–given your penchant for witchcraft–but typically, the ground doesn’t speak.”

“That’s such a–”

“Look, we only have a few more hours til dusk and–”

“A few?” she asks, her brows arching quizzically. “That’s quite the understatement! There’s no way it’s even noon yet.”

Robin sighs and his eyes roll. “Regardless, I’d like to actually  _live to see_  dusk.”

Bristling, she crosses her arms tightly over her chest and looks to the cellar doors. He does have a valid point, and it wasn’t long ago she heard the dogs barking as they ran ahead of a search party–and thought it’d been an uncomfortable hinderance, she was glad for the rain and its ability to wash away her scent. Then, in a huff, she looks back to him–and just before she’s about to concede his point, she remembers watching him pick the lock of the cellar. She’d been impressed by how quickly he’d managed it, and now she knew that it wasn’t the first time he’d done such a thing or–

Her thoughts halt as a realization settles upon her. “It’s not even locked!”

“What?”

“This cellar,”  she hisses. “You picked the lock!”

“My pick was easier to find in my pocket than the key.”

“Robin! That means–”

“A friend locked it.”

“What? How would–”

“I had a plan, alright?” he interjects, finally looking up at her. “As I pointed out before, I’d been watching.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s creepy, you know.”

“Mm, very well, but it saved your ass.” She gasps, feigning shock at his foul language–but Robin only rolls his eyes. “I told my friend John to check the cellar before dawn, just in case I had to bring you here.”

“Just in case?”

He nods. “I hoped we’d get farther, back to my camp but–”

“And where is that?”

“Away from Salem.” He pauses. “Near the Wampanoag.”

Her eyes widen. “But they’re–”

“Perfectly civilized and damn good hunters.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing. “Far more civilized than the good, godly men who ordered your death.”

Shifting a bit uncomfortable, she nods. Never in her life had she had any interaction with the native people who surrounded the colony; but Leopold often likened her to them when he caught her burning incense or reciting chants. He called her a savage and damned, a brute and barely human.

“I believe it,” she tells him, her voice suddenly meek. “So, you’re… you’re sure your friend locked it?”

“Positive,” he replies, gingerly rising up on his feet. “And I’ll prove it.”

Regina watches as Robin gets up and moves toward the cellar doors above them, climbing up a few stairs as he reaches up above himself to push on the cellar doors. “See, it’s–”

Robin doesn’t finish the sentence.

Instead, his voice is replaced by a high-pitched squeal and fluttering–and as her eyes widen and her head cocks to the side for a better look, she sees a tiny bat fly away from the door. She grins as she watched the frightened bat relocate itself across the cellar–but Robin remains on the stairs, a shrill noise escaping him as he shakes his head and limbs wildly, trying to clear away the bat that’s no longer anywhere near him, hitting away the air as his face turns red.

And all she can do is laugh as she wonders who screamed louder, Robin or the frightened bat–and as she considers this, she laughs to the point of tears.

“What the–” He stops, blinking at her as he pants. “What the hell was–”

“It was a bat,” she laughs, motioning behind herself to where the wide-eyed bat hangs. “And I’m pretty sure it’s a baby one, at that.”

Robin stares indignantly at her. “Those things are known to suck the blood from–”

Her eyes roll. “Unless you’re a tomato, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bats eat fruit, not… people.”

His eyes narrow as he draws in a long breath, slowly exhaling it as he comes down from the stairs. “And how would you know that?”

“Well, I am a witch, and everyone knows that witches have an affinity for other creatures of the night.” Robin just stares at her, still attempting to recover his breath, and her eyes roll. “Seriously, though, the only thing that poor little thing is going to do is steal your snacks and protect you from cockroaches.”

Again, Robin’s eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”

“Did you say you lived in a camp in the woods?” she asks, waiting for him to nod in reply. “That’s… somewhat alarming. You–”

“Can we just… change the subject?” he asks, cutting him as he sits down on the bench, placing his hands on knees as he draws in deliberate breaths. “To literally anything else.”

“Fine,” she murmurs, sighing a little as she realizes her distraction has ended. “Does this mean you’re willing to talk to me?”

“Was I ever unwilling?”

“Well, this morning–”

“Look, we need to be quiet,” he tells her, watching as she sits down beside him. “It’s nothing personal, it’s just… well… after everything, I’d like both of us to live to see another day.”

“You mentioned.” For a moment, they’re both quiet, and from the corner of her eye, she can see him staring at her with narrow eyes as if sizing her up. “What? Why are you–”

“How did you get into it?”

“What?”

“Witchcraft.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, somewhat taken aback. “It’s… it’s all I’ve ever known.”

“So your parents–”

“My mother,” she corrects. “My mother practiced it.”

“Not your father?”

“I never knew him. He died before I was born. He was a privateer and he rescued my mother from a shipwreck near Barbados. That’s how they met.”

“Was your mother–”

“She was English, but her father was curious about faraway lands.”

“So, he took her along on his voyage.”

“Mmhmm,” she nods, conjuring hazy memories of her childhood on the island. “She always wanted to get away, but…”

“The shipwreck foiled her attempt?”

“Yes, and then she had me, and then my father died and–”

“I’m surprised she didn’t practice a Christian faith.”

“I’m not,” she admits. “To me it was… just magic. She’d burn herbs and damn people, and… I liked the way it smelled and the songs she’d sing and… and a maid taught me.”

“A maid?” he asks, sounding surprised. “Why not your mother?”

“She practiced something that was dark. What my maid taught me was… all about healing and–”

“Magic.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And how did you end up here and not… well… um… there.”

A little grin edges onto her lips at the awkwardness of his question, and when she looks over at him, he seems genuinely curious. So, she tells him–or at least, she tells him what she knows. She explains that her mother had never been happy in Barbados, and blamed her father for having to stay–though, that never quite added up since she stayed so long after his death.

It seemed there was no way out, and Cora Mills had been resigned to that. However, as she gave up on her own fate, she seemed to push her hopes and expectations onto her daughter–and when Regina turned seventeen, she’d heard a rumor of a ship coming to the island. The ship was commissioned by Leopold Blanchard–an incredibly wealthy and powerful widower. They’d known each other when they were young, and from what she gathered, her mother had once been fond of him. But the reunion wasn’t meant for them–and instead, when the Blanchard’s ship docked on the island, it became all too clear that a maid wasn’t the only thing Leopold Blanchard came to the island for.

She wasn’t sure if it just happened or if it was some convoluted plan, but nonetheless, it completely shocked her. The wedding happened before she could even process it, and by the time Leopold Blanchard set sail again, he had a new, young bride–and that was the only time her mother ever told her that she was proud of her.

The voyage went smoothly, but that was the only part of the transition that did; and she soon learned of both her husband’s cruelty and expectations for her.

And she bucked against them whenever she could.

“Is that why you don’t go to church?” he asks, his voice soft and not at all accusatory. “Is that why you… well… why you practice… what you do?”

“You won’t go to hell just for saying it,” she tells him, giggling softly. “And, yes… to both of your questions.”

“I just… don’t want to be insulting.”

She blinks, unused to that sort of courtesy. “How about you?” she hears herself ask. “How did you end up in the life you did? It’s not exactly–”

“The life of a god-fearing man?”

“No.”

He grins. “I don’t remember all of it,” he tells her. “We have that in common.”

“That’s hard, isn’t it? Not even knowing your own story?”

Robin nods. “That’s why I decided that I was going to decide the rest, and not let anyone else do it for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just… my parents came here involuntarily.” Her eyes widen. “It seems my penchant for theft was one that was passed on through the generations.”

“Your parents were thieves?”

“My father, yes,” he tells her, nodding. “They didn’t make it.”

It takes a moment for her to understand, and when she does, her breath catches in her chest. “Oh, I’m–”

“Don’t apologize for it. I barely remember it.”

“Still–”

“Well, the captain of the ship took me in and wanted me to work off the passage.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

“Oh, that’s awful.”

“It was,” he agrees, nodding. “That’s why I ran away.”

“At seven?”

“Well, I gave until I was eight–”

“That makes it so much better then.”

He grins at her sarcasm. “I thought so, at the time.”

“Not now?”

“Not after the second day,” he laughs. “I was starving by the next morning, but too stubborn to go back.”

“So, what happened?”

“An old Wampanoag woman took pity on me. She was recently made a widow, and I think she was looking for a distraction. So, she took me in and fed me and gave me something dry to put on, and… raised me. She’d argue that she’s  _still_ raising me.”

“That explains–”

He laughs gently and nods. “She’s not very fond of my thievery, but she always forgives me.”

“And you were… going to take me there?” she asks, touched that he’d take her–a stranger and a convict–to a place so personal and special. “That’s–”

“I watched you once, performing a sort of ritual. You were burning herbs and breathing in the smoke, and looking up at the sky, swaying. It’s–”

“Something my maid taught me when I was a little girl.”

“The Wampanoag do something similar, just not alone.”

“I have no one to do it with. It’s to summon–”

“Courage,” he supplies–and she nods as a slow smile edges onto her lips as they find a moment of understanding. Then, to her surprise, he reaches for the pine torch he’d lit the night before. “Here,” he says, voice somewhat gruff. “It’s not the same but–”

“You want me to…”

“It seems to me we could use all the courage the two of us can muster.” Regina watches as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little pine stick. He strikes it against the wall, and a moment later, a little flame flickers at the end of it. Her eyes widen at it and he grins, shrugging. “A little something I picked up from a trader.”

“Picked up?”

He nods. “From his pocket. While he slept.”

“Ah–”

“You should do the honors,” he tells her, carefully transferring the little stick from his fingertips to hers, and then, as she draws in a breath, she lights the pine needles, already comforted by the ancient tradition she’s not even sure she truly believes in–yet, as she looks between Robin and the flame, in that moment, she can’t help but believe in it fully.


	4. Chapter 4

Looking over at Robin, she draws his cloak up around her shoulders and shivers as a chill runs down her spine. The burlap dress she wears might as well not even be on her. It offers her no warmth and, though she’s been out of the rain for hours now, it seems perpetually damp and cold–and without doubt, if Robin hadn’t given her his cloak that morning, she’d have frozen to death hours ago.

Sighing through another shiver, she grins a bit wistfully as she looks over at Robin, watching him sleep in an upright, sitting position that doesn’t look comfortable or conducive to sleep. Yet, there he is, dozing peacefully beside her.

Turning toward him, she looks at him–noting the scruff on his cheeks and the dimples that sink into their corners, even when his face is rested as it is now–and she can’t help but think that, in the light of day and without the hood and mask–he’s not an unattractive man. In fact, it’s quite the contrary–she finds him incredibly attractive, and she wonders how it is that she’s spent the last several years living in Salem and never once noticed him, especially given that  _he_ was around to enough notice  _her_. She reaches out and tentatively traces a finger over his arm, and she thinks of how nice it was to let him hold her, to let him comfort her in a way that few ever had–and as she watches him sleep, she can’t help but think of how much she envies him.

It’s hard to imagine what it’s like to be able to fall asleep so easily, simply because your body was tired enough to do so–to just block away the world and to sleep even in the most uncertain and uncomfortable of circumstances. Even on the best of nights, it’s a struggle for her to stop her thoughts from spinning around in her head–and this wasn’t even night.

It was the middle of the day and through the cracks in the cellar door, she could see rays of light streaming in. Every now and then, she heard the rustling wind or what she could only assume was a little woodland animal climbing over the cellar door. It wasn’t time to sleep and her body knew that. She was bored, but restless, and though she more than understood the necessity of staying still and quiet in the cellar, it was a challenge and went against every natural instinct she had.

Aside from the wind and creatures of the forest, they’d barely heard a sound–and that quiet had lulled Robin into a seemingly easy and peaceful sleep. The search party had come and gone, then come again; and each time they passed by the cellar as if it wasn’t there, as if they couldn’t see it. On their first time by, she could hear their voices–muffled and low–and though she couldn’t quite make out the words they spoke, she could hear the anger and the hate and the fear that they felt. She’d held her breath and Robin held his–and for the first time, he looked worried–but then, just as abruptly as they came, they left. Then, the second time they came by, they’d lingered longer, their voices seemingly perplexed. One suggested she’d escaped to a neighboring village or was being harbored by a neighboring tribe–and that’s when they’d noticed the cellar as one asked  _what’s there?_  and footsteps neared.

Her heart beat a mile a minute and tears filled her eyes, and she found herself reaching for Robin’s hand–and to her great relief, he pulled her close and readied an arrow.

But he hadn’t needed the arrow.

The men of the search party scoffed and said it looked like a small animal’s den and though Regina Mills was small in stature, she could never hide in a pile of brush and leaves–and before she even processed their words, and came to understand that someone had covered up the cellar doors, the men left to look once more down by the river.

She’d held her breath longer than she should have–longer than necessarily–and when she finally breathed out in relief, her head was dizzy and she felt a bit faint. She must of wavered because Robin’s arms tightened around her as he dropped the arrow down beside them.

It seemed silly to be so upset now. She hadn’t cried when she was arrested or through the tests, and she hadn’t cried as she listened to the testimony against her. She’d cried a little when she was pushed into her cell, but for the most part, she was numb and resigned to her fate–and now, she was living on borrowed time. Already, she’d lived longer than anticipated; by the point in the day, she should have been dead for hours–yet here she was.

Here she was, crying.

Wordlessly, Robin hugs her closer, and now that her tears have started, she can’t seem to stop them.

He rubs her back and rocks her gently, but he doesn’t tell her that everything will be alright. The confidence and bravado from the night before seems gone, and she wonders if he regrets his decision to break her out and run away with her–after all, until the previous night, she’d been an absolute stranger to him, and now, his life hinged on hers.

“I…”

“Shh,” he cuts in, barely audible as he shakes his head. “Not til we know they’ve gone.”

“But–”

“Shhh—”

She tries to protest, but her words fall short and she knows that he’s right. They’re hiding in plain sight, and if she can just stay quiet, it should all blow over–and by nightfall, they’ll be on their way again. She tells herself that again, and again, that staying quiet is merely a precautionary measure, that it’ll be dusk soon and then dark and–

Then, he presses a kiss to her forehead, and for a brief moment, the voice in her head silences.

She looks up at him with wide eyes, and he grins a bit sheepishly, his cheeks flush beneath his beard. For a moment they both just sit there, staring at one another as if considering what to do or say–and then, as the little voice in her head comes back and reminds her of the danger they’re both in and how ill advised it’d be to talk, she pushes herself forward, pressing her lips to his.

She’s not sure if its a kiss or not–well, not at first–but then, he doesn’t pull away. His hand coasts up over her cheek, drawing her closer, and his tongue brushes against her bottom lip–and all of it makes her heart beat wildly, drowning out the nervous little voice in her head.

Robin’s tongue slips between her lips, brushing over hers, as he again pulls her closer to him, and she finds herself craving his. His are lips soft and warm, and slowly, his hands slip around her, holding her close and warming her up–and then, when he pulls back, his eyes filled with questions, she nods and pushes herself back to him, kissing him harder as he pulls her into his lap. There’s an excitement about it and also a comfort, and never in her life has she done something like this–never in her life has she given into flirtation and let a man she barely knew kiss her and touch her, and never before in her life had she trusted a man enough to let him go further than that.

He grins a little when he pulls back and tightens the cloak strings around her neck, then reaches down and lifts her skirt–and as she draws in a breath, she nods and focuses on his eyes, lifting her hips to let him gather up her thin burlap skirt. Her heart pounds as he pulls her back to him, kissing her as his arms form around her back–and then, she lets out a little giggle as he reaches up and pulls the twine from her hair. Her hair falls down around her shoulders as he breaks the kiss, watching as she shakes it out.

It’s odd that she’d forgotten the too-tight bun at the back of her head, and even odder how much more herself she feels with her hair down and loose–and she can’t remember the last time she wore it this way. She only ever took it down to wash it. Robin tucks it behind her ears, smiling as his fingers comb though it–and then, as the little voice in the back of her head starts to question what they’re doing, she decides to silence it once again and she leans back in to kiss him. This time, her hands reach between them, fumbling with the buckle on his pants–and then, as her hand slips inside of them, the voice returns, reminding her that this is something wicked and evil girls would do. For a moment, she considers pulling back and stopping it, but when she pulls back, Robin smiles at her and strokes her hair, and when their eyes meet, the voice in her head once again fades away.

Not breaking their kiss, she pulls herself up a bit, adjusting herself over him and pushing herself closer. Between them, she can feel him adjusting himself and when he tries to pull back, likely to question if this is what she really wants, she kisses him harder. Both of her hands slide up over his cheeks, holding him where he is–and when a soft chuckle escapes him, she finds herself giggling, too.

She eases herself down onto him slowly, her breath catching in her chest as he fills her–and for a moment, she just lets him hold her, enjoying the closeness and warmth. Then, her hips begin to move, rocking back and forth, and allowing herself a physical pleasure she’d never quite enjoyed before–and finally, she succeeds in blocking away the world.

When it’s done, he holds her, cuddling her close and wrapping her up in his cloak as her body and mind finally give way to her exhaustion.


	5. Chapter 5

Regina’s eyes flutter open, and the first thing she notices is that the cellar is darker--and then after that, she realizes that Robin is still holding her. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she pulls back, remembering what she allowed to happen between them--but when she looks at him, he’s not looking at her with any judgement.

“You slept well,” he tells her easily, his voice just above a whisper. “You needed it.”

Swallowing, she nods, bristling a bit at the lack of warmth she feels now that she’s away from him. “Mm, yes,” she nods. “I… is that your way of telling me that I was cranky?”

He grins. “Not cranky,” he says slowly. “Just… very clearly tired.”

Her eyes narrow and she feels her defensiveness prickling at her--and she knows that it’s not him bothering her. But she’s always been good at sabotaging herself. It’s almost like an instinct for her, a way to push back against her own choice and feelings, to cast blame elsewhere--and she hates it, though, no matter what, it always feels like she’s incapable of stopping it once it’s started.

“What are you implying?” she hears herself ask, unwilling to admit the obvious in that she  _was_ actually tired.

“Look, I’m just saying that it’s been a rough couple of days for you.”

He doesn’t engage the way that she wants him to and she frowns. “But--”

“Stop.”

“What are you--”

“I’m not going to argue.”

“But--”

“No.” Robin grins and crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what  _this_ is, exactly, but I’m not going to participate in it.” She’s not entirely sure how to respond to that, but when she huffs and folds her arms, he laughs softly and watches her with those kind, sparkling blue eyes. “You did this yesterday, too.”

“If you don’t like my company--” At that, she grimaces, wondering why she can’t just drop it. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I can’t seem to get a handle on… well…”

“Like I said,” he says, his voice low but soft. “It’s been a rough couple of days.” She nods and settles back against the cold wall of the cellar, folding her legs beneath herself and pulling his cloak right around herself--and she feels guilt bubbling up at her core as that little voice returns, telling her that this won’t end well for him. “I know how tense I feel. I can only imagine that it’s doubly so for you.”

She nods--and then, sighs. “I don’t like feeling… confined.”

“No one does.”

“Well, I just… when I was little and then again when I came to Salem to live with Leopold, I…”

Her voice trail and her eyes pinch closed, and she can almost feel Leopold shoving her into a darkened closet as memories of being left alone in the dark swirl through her head. Just thinking of it, her chest tightens and it's a struggle to breathe. Her fists ache as she if she’s already been pounding on the doors for hours, her throat sore from screaming as she tamps down the anger bubbling at her core, wondering how it is that no one seemed able to hear her.

It’d always been like this, ever since she was a girl, and for the life of her, she struggled to understand how to be good. The rules seemed ever-changing, and she just kept getting herself into trouble. She didn’t try to, but it always happened. Leopold told her that she didn't have a moral compass, and her mother always told her she didn’t understand the way the world worked--and she supposed, both of those things were true. She didn’t have a good gauge of her actions--and what led her to this cellar was a perfect example. She thought she was defending her step-daughter and protecting her from harm, but in reality, all she was doing was sealing her own fate--and what seemed like giving in to her vulnerability and allowing herself a distraction and comfort would likely lead to the demise of someone who’d shown her nothing but kindness.

“I shouldn’t have let myself--”

“You don’t regret what happened between us, do you?”

“No,” she admits, her cheeks flushing with warmth and embarrassment. “But still, it’s not something--”

“I won’t spread it around, you know. I won’t… tell anyone.”

“Who would you tell?” she asks, a sardonic little laugh bubbling up from her. “If you told anyone you’d been with me, you’d hang.”

“Or be accused of--” He sighs. “Yeah, I’d hang.”

“You could leave, you know.” Robin’s brows arch. “I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“And what would happen to you if I did that?”

“That’s not really your concern.”

“I think it is,” he counters, crossing his arms in an annoyingly stubborn but sweet way. “I think you are my concern.”

“Why?” she asks, bristling at his show of kindness. “Because you had sex with me?”

Robin’s eyes roll, but he doesn’t look at all put off. “No,” he says easily. “Because we’re in this together.”

“We don’t have to be.”

“I know that, but I am the one who broke you out of that jail cell, and I am the one harboring a fugitive. If I leave who's to say you wouldn’t give me up?” Again, his brow arches and he grins. “Look, I’m not going to drag you off and make you marry me just because we slept together or… anything equally extreme, but until I know that you’re safe, you’re stuck with me.”

“Why?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you so intent on saving me?”

He shrugs and his grin fades. “It’s what I do.”

Something in his voice changes and makes her curious--and more than anything she wants to shift both the conversation and her thoughts away from herself. “Do you, um… want to…”

“Talk about it?” he asks, folding his arms much like she did before. “Not especially.” She frowns, and he softens and sighs. “There’s not much to it.”

“Much to what?”

“The story.”

Nodding, she bites down on her lip. “It’s just… you know so much about me and--”

Robin’s eyes roll. “You just want another distraction.” Her eyes fall away from his and she feels guilt pang at her core, embarrassed once more, but this time because she’s trying to use something that’s likely personal and painful for him for her own amusement.

Well. Not quite amusement, but--

“Her name was Marian,” he says, sighing and waiting for her to look up. “She died because of me.”

“Oh,” Regina breathes out, her chest tightening. “You don’t have to--”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I just I miss her and talking about her reminds me of that.” And then he shrugs, a sad little smile edging onto his lips. “I always forget that I  _like_ remembering her.”

“Did you love her?”

Robin nods. “Very much so.”

Swallowing hard, Regina hesitates. “Did you… I mean, did she… know how you felt about her?”

“I’d like to think so,” he admits, laughing gently. “After all, we were planning to marry.”

“Oh, Robin that’s--” Her eyes press closed and she looks away, shaking her head and hating that this is where she brought their conversation. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he tells her. “I meant it when I said I like talking about her.”

Reaching out, Robin touches his hand to her knee. “How did you meet her?” she asks, looking up--and before she can assure him that he doesn’t have to answer that or apologize for an imprudent question, he smiles and tells her they’d known each other since they were kids.

“Her mother grew up in the same Wampanoag village that I grew up in. When she married, she moved further south, but her parents would bring her to see her cousins and aunts and uncles and--”

“You?”

“After awhile, yes,” he tells her. “Her father came over as a servant to one of the settlers and then bought his freedom about ten years later. He was… a proud man, as you might imagine, and I knew that I wasn’t good enough for his daughter--”

“I’m sure that’s not--”

“Oh, it was,” he tells her, nodding. “And he reminded me of it often. He told me once that he didn’t trust me and that I’d get Marian into trouble and… and that was the day I told him that I was in love with her and wanted to marry her.”

“How did that go?”

“Not well,” he admits. “But then Marian came in and… and he couldn’t deny her anything, so he agreed to let us see each other.”

Her stomach flops--she wants to smile, but she knows that this is merely a sweet spot in a sad story. “Then what happened?”

“Uh, well, we started to see each other more and more, and that meant more and more people saw us together.” He clears his throat. “I told you about my thieving ways, right?”

“You did.”

“Well, I, um… I stole a necklace and I tucked it away and forgot about it. I meant to pawn it, but…” Robin sighs and shrugs. “Like I said, I forgot… until Marian found it.”

“Was she angry?”

“No,” he tells her. “But she liked it, so I gave it to her and… um…”

“Oh,” she breathes out, suddenly understanding.

“She was accused of theft and when I came forward, no one believed me.” His eyes darken. “Your intruder--” Regina feels her eyes widen. “He, um… he blamed her for other thefts and there was nothing I could do or say to counter that.”

“How, um… how did she die?”

Again, his eyes darken. “She was hanged and then she was taken down and… burned in a fire.” Regina watches as his eyes shift away from her and, perhaps on his instinct, she finds herself reaching for his hand. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to her. I didn’t even get to bury her.”

“I… don’t know what to say,” she murmurs, vaguely remembering Leopold and Gold talking about a native woman who’d quietly been raiding homes in Salem and how she got what she deserved. She hadn’t pressed for details--she didn’t want them--and she’d learned not to question the motives of her husband, much less the church. But she also remembered sneaking off into the woods and sitting in front of a fire as she asked Bondye or Loa or any spirit that might be listening to look out for the woman’s soul because, without knowing the details, she knew that she didn’t deserve to die. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

For a moment, she just sits there, holding her breath and contemplating what to do--and then, in one fluid motion, she shifts herself to the opposite end of the bench so that she’s sitting beside him. She stretches her arm around his shoulders--and though she’s not sure it’s of any help to him, she hopes that she can provide him with even just a sliver of the comfort that he’s brought to her.


	6. Chapter 6

Hugging her knees to her chest, Regina watches as Robin sharpens the ends of his arrows with a rock--pulling them one by one from the quiver and rubbing them until their points are sharpened, then tucking them back into their place. In some ways, it’s mesmerizing watching him--though, she’s not sure that it’s him so much as it is that he’s the only thing to provide any sort of entertainment. But she can’t help but notice how focused he is, how much attention he pays to detail, and how nimble his fingers are.

“When did you learn that?”

“Hm?” he asks, not looking up at her. “Learn what?”

“That,” she says, gesturing toward the rock and arrow. “When did you learn to… um… sharpen…” Her voice falters and then it trails off as he looks up at her and grins, and almost as soon as he does, her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I suppose that was a stupid question. Who doesn't know how to sharpen a knife on--”

“I told you a Wampanoag woman took pity on me and raised me?”

“Yes.”

He laughs a little. “She calls me Adahy sometimes as a sort of nickname. It means ‘Boy who lives in the woods.’” A grin twists onto her lips. “It’s quite appropriate. I am a boy who lives in the woods.”

“Of course.”

“Well, when she took me in, the others were quite leery of me.”

“But you were just a child. You--”

“Even then, I understood,” Robin cuts in. “Anaba--the widow--and her brother, Askuwheteau, lived through King Philip's War and--”

“Oh--” She grimaces. Everyone knew about that because men like her husband constantly referred to it, using it as if proof of their superiority. “That’s right.”

“Askuwheteau is a watchman,” Robin explains. “He’s the one who taught me how to shoot.”

Regina nods, biting down on her lip. “Are you very close with them?”

“They raised me.”

“Oh, right--”

“I know that doesn’t always mean close, though,” he says, his voice suddenly gentler as her cheeks flush. “But, yes, I am quite close with both of them.”

She envies that, she thinks--and then, she realizes how crass that seems.

Her life had always been one of privilege and here she was feeling envious of someone who’d lost his parents at a young age, then mistreated by the one whose care he’d been left in. From there, he’d been on his own and then taken in by strangers from another land and culture--then, as it seemed his life was finally coming together, once again, he lost it all.

She didn’t have a right to complain. Though her life was far from perfect and she’d faced her share of hardships, she’d at least faced them in comfort.

Well, up until now…

“Do you hunt?” His brow furrows as his eyes meet hers. “I mean, with, um… the arrows.”

“Yes,” he says easily. “When it’s my turn.”

She nods, shifting awkwardly at her poor attempt to move the conversation, and then she feels a grin tugging up at her lips as she thinks of Robin hunting which only leads to her remembering him flailing and screaming as a tiny bat fluttered away from him--and then, suddenly, she’s laughing.

“Is that… um… a surprise to you? Me hunting, that is?”

“No,” she manages to say, her face scrunching up as she tries to stop her laugh. “I just--”

Robin bristles and his shoulder square. “I’ll have you know that I am a damn good shot. I never--”

“Hunt bats?”

He stops and his eyes widen indignantly, his jaw tensing. “No one hunts bats.”

She nods, and a little snicker squeaks out of her. “Right.”

“They’re fruit bats, they--”

“Wouldn’t hurt a fly?”

Again, his eyes widen as if he’s lost his point. “I was taken by surprise. That’s--”

“Of course,” she cuts in, giggling to herself. “That was it.”

Robin blinks, huffling slightly as his arms cross. “It was dark and… and those things bite and--”

“Turn people into vampires?”

She giggles when his jaw tightens further. “They’ve been known to suck blood and--”

“That’s a myth.”

“It isn’t.”

“Well, it isn’t if you’re an apple or maybe a sunflower.” Robin just stares at her for a moment before shaking his head and looking away, and she feels guilt pang at her core, wondering if she’s taken it too far. “Robin, I’m--”

“Look, just because you’re a witch and you like hanging around creatures of the night, doesn't mean the rest of us do.” He manages through it with a straight face, and then just as she’s wondering if this is really something they’re going to argue about, a grin twists onto his lips, and his blue eyes shine as his laugh rings out. “I’m sure I looked like an absolute fool.”

Nodding, Regina giggles. “We all have our moments.”

“Something tells me you don’t."

“No?”

“No,” he replies. “You seem so graceful and--”

“I’m not sure anyone’s ever said that I have any degree of grace,” she tells him, her smile fading slightly as she thinks of all the times Leopold reminded her of the evilness in her heart, and how she would soon be damned to hell. “Quite the contrary, actually.”

“From where I’m standing, you’ve plenty of grace and poise and… goodness.”

Her cheeks warm. “You… sound as though you might be fond of me.”

“Well, that’s because I am.”

Her brows arch. “You don’t know--”

“I know you well enough to know that I’m fond of you.”

“Well, I suppose, um… given what we did this afternoon... we, um…”

Robin grins and chuckles softly. “We had to stay warm somehow, right?”

“Is that what we were doing?”

“Well, weren’t you warm? I certainly was and--” Regina laughs out suddenly, and his voice comes to an abrupt stop, his head tipping to the side. “What? What’s so funny? I was--”

“I just… I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like you.”

At that, Robin practically beams. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” she tells him. “I just… I can’t believe how easily you disregard all of the things that would have everyone else quaking in their boots and fearing their own damnation.” Shrugging, she lets her eyes meet his. “It’s… refreshing to be looked at without judgement or scorn or… whatever other ways people look at me.”

“I… live by my own rules,” he tells her. “I always have.”

She nods. “I suppose you would have had to.”

“And, it seems, you’ve done the same.”

Regina blinks. No one had ever framed her choices that way. “Yes,” she murmurs. “I suppose that’s true.”

Reaching out, Robin takes her hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. She’s not sure what it is, but the gesture has her blushing and looking away, and then sensing her discomfort, he lets go of her hand and settles back against the cellar wall.

“The Wampanoag aren’t far. Just a few miles,” he tells her. “That’s our destination.”

“You’re going to… take me to them?”

“They won’t hurt you. They’re--”

“No,” she cuts in. “That’s not what I meant. I just… they mean so much to you.”

“Which is why that’s where I’m taking you. They’ll hide you if--”

“Robin, I don’t know if--”

“No one will look for you there.” She blinks. It’s true enough. She can’t imagine Leopold giving them enough credit to aid and abet an escaped convict, and he can’t imagine he’d give her the credit to think of hiding amongst them in plain sight. “You, um… you don’t have to stay forever, but it’ll give you time to… um…” He shrugs and beneath his stubbly cheeks, she thinks she sees his skin flushing slightly. “Well, I suppose that’s not for me to decide. It’s not my concern what you decide to do after.”

“No,” she murmurs, feeling an odd stirring in her chest that she doesn’t quite understand. “It isn’t.”

“Eventually, they’ll stop looking, and you can… figure out your next move.” Taking a breath, he looks to the cellar doors. “It’s dark.”

“It is,” she replies, nodding and following his gaze. “Should we--”

“Yes, I suppose we should,” he answers a bit reluctantly, but taking in another breath he rises to his feet. “I’m sure you can’t wait to get out of this damp cellar.”

Swallowing, she can’t help but think of how wrong he is, but can’t find the words to express why that is. So, she lies and agrees that she can hardly stand another moment in the cellar and can’t wait to take in the cool, fresh air--and then, he goes through a plan that she barely pays attention to.

He explains the route in detail, assuring her that he’ll hold her hand so that they don’t get separated--and then, as he pulls his quiver onto his back, her stomach flops and she follows him up the dark stairs. The cold night air hits her face as they emerge from the cellar, and her heart pounds wildly as his fingers curl around her hand as they steal away into to night, barely able to see the path in front of them through the thickness of the trees.

Then, as they wind around the curve of a path toward the river, a light catches her eye.

Robin comes to a halt and his fingers tighten around her hand as her ankles dig into the earth beneath her, and as she looks around, she finds that they’re surrounded. Tears sting in her eyes as the man with the lantern comes forward and when she sees Leopold’s hard angry eyes in the light, her breath catches in her chest--and then, as Robin is ripped away from her, she lets out a scream that echoes through the woods.

She cries out his name and tries to break free from Leopold’s hold, but she knows that it’s no use and struggling will only make them angrier--and if she lets them know how much she cares, it’ll only be that much worse for Robin.

So, she stops and lets them take him.


	7. Chapter 7

The stone of the cell feels colder than it did before, and the rain’s returned with a vengeance.

She’s in a different cell this time--a smaller one, positioned in the back of the jail--and this time, she’s been gifted with a view of the gallows. Her wrists and ankles are bound with metal shackles, and the chain that keeps her in place against the wall is less than an arm's length, making it impossible to look away.

Once more, she’d been reminded of the evil inside of her and--when they were alone--Leopold told her that part of her punishment would be to see the suffering she’d caused before she died so the last thing she would think of was pain and suffering she’d brought down upon her lover.

His tone turned bitter at that--at the word  _lover_ \--and it was almost as if he knew what happened between her and Robin in the cellar. Truthfully, she didn’t care if Leopold knew and she didn’t care if Robin had told him; it didn’t embarrass her that they’d been together in that way and she refused to consider it wrong, given the comfort it brought to her. But what did bother her was the judgement in her husband’s voice as if it proved something about her, as if it proved all of his assumptions right.

To him, it meant that she was evil, that she was a witch and that she deserved to die.

And what was worse was that it likely meant that he’d die, too.

After they were captured, they were separated. She was loaded into one jail wagon and he into another, and when the path at the end of the woods diverged, the wagon carrying him went the opposite way. She was taken back to the jail and Gold had taken a sick sort of pleasure binding her wrists up above her head and whipping her until her back bled.

She’d stood there--naked and on display--the wounds on her back stringing and her wrists and shoulders burning. She’s refused to cry, though, and she refused to beg them stop--then, when Leopold crouched down in front of her and told her the whipping might force the evilness out of her, it took everything in her not to spit in his face. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d gotten to her...

Though they’d taken Robin on an opposite path, he’d ended up at the church next door. From her cell, she could see it clearly and she’d desperately searched for a glimpse of him. It seemed silly to feel reassured that he was still alive--given that his fate and hers were all but sealed--but when she saw him struggling against the men who dragged him toward the church’s annex, she felt the oddest sense of relief.

The relief was short-lived, of course.

A reverend arrived soon after carrying his bible and a glass bottle of holy water, and she could only assume they were about to perform some sort of exorcism to rid him of whatever demons she’s unleashed on him--and judging from his screams, it didn’t go well.

At sunrise, she’d finally caught of a glimpse of him as two men dragged him to the stocks, shoving him down and forcing his arms into the wooden holes. The locks were tight and even from her cell, she could see that they cut into his skin--and that was the only time she allowed their eyes to meet, and she found his lip was bloodied. He smiled though and offered her a wink, and she forced herself to look away, unable to accept the kind gesture--after all, it was her fault that he was going to die.

Leopold’s words echoed in her ears, cutting at her in a way far more painful than the chains around her or the hard burlap of her dress that scratched against the fresh wounds--and for the first time, she wished that she’d died the day before because had she died, Robin’s fate wouldn’t be tied to hers. She missed the numbness she’d felt the day before and she missed the emptiness and acceptance she’d felt. Her fate was sealed and that was that, and then Robin--who, in less than a day’s time, went from an absolute stranger to someone she cared for deeply, renewed her sense of hope. She hadn’t realized how she’d fought against that and she hadn’t realized how it’d burrowed inside of her and taken hold--and when she looked at Robin, bound and bloodied in the stocks, the regret that filled her was overwhelming and forced her to look away.

Turning away was difficult. The chains that held her against the cold stone wall were not long enough to allow her much movement and what little she could manage made the metal shackles around her wrists cut into her skin--but then, when she expected the chains to tighten, they instead loosened and she heard the sharp found of a brick scratching against another.

She stopped, stiffening as she looked around herself.

The jail was dark, and save the windows, there was no light inside, not even from a fire. She could just barely make out some of the gaunt faces of the other prisoners, but none of them awoke from the noise. Drawing in a breath, she slowly extended her hand out in front of her, grimacing as the bricks slid against each other and the shackles rubbed against her worn skin--and then, the brick came crashing down.

She held her breath and waited, but no one noticed--and when she looked up, she could see Robin eyeing the hole where the brick had once been.

Pressing her eyes closed she drew in another breath, still unable to look at him as her heart beat wildly in her chest and her fingers worked frantically to unwind the changes and shackles. Even though she knew that no one was there, she kept looking up--just waiting to be caught--and when one wrist was free, she easy unlocked the clasps on the shackles that bound her other wrist and her ankles

She felt a thrill run down her spine as her stomach churned both anxiety and exhilaration--and then, she realized that she was still trapped. She might have have freed herself from the chains, but she was still stuck in the cell--and upon that realization her eyes sunk closed and her shoulders slumped forward as she chastised herself for her stupidity, and for allowing herself to, even for just a moment, believe that she might be able to fix this and that may neither she nor Robin would have to lose his life with the coming morning.

Leaning back against the wall, Regina slowly sinks down as tears well in her eyes. Cool air comes in through the hole in the wall, making her shiver as she draws her knees up to her chest in an effort to keep warm--and as she rubs her hands over her knees, an odd memory stirs.

 _The clasps_ , she thinks.

They’re pins--metal pins that locked and unlocked the shackles. Hesitantly, she opens her eyes to stare at the open shackle laying on the floor of the cell, just out of her reach. She remembers watching Robin pick the lock on the cellar and how the pick was a long iron pin almost identical to this one--and then, as she slowly reaches for it, she reminds herself that she doesn’t have anything to lose.

It takes a bit of patience to pull the pin from the shackles, but almost as soon as she’s separated it she is on her feet, sticking the pin into the lock. As she wiggles it around in an effort to pop open the lock, she notices another woman in the cell across from hers sitting up on the bench in her cell. She eyes her closely, but doesn’t say anything--and then, as soon as she feels the lock spring open, she throws open the cell and sprints down the narrow corridor to the front of the jail.

The sky is light now and though everything is quiet and still, she knows the guard sleeping only a few lengths away from her would soon wake.

For a moment, she just stands there, contemplating what she should do--and again, Leopold’s words echo deafeningly in her ears.

_You’ll watch your lover die._

Heat rises up the back of her neck as she remembers the smug judgmental look on his face and the way his eyes seemed to laugh, and the memory stirs something at her core. Before she can dwell for too long on the memory, she hears the faint sound of a carriage rattling, drawing closer and closer with each passing moment, likely coming toward the jail to take them to the gallows. Her stomach flops at the thought of it--the thought of Gold ordering Robin up onto the platform, forcing him when he refuses and pulling the noose down over his head, and she flinches when she thinks about the platform’s bottom being pulled away and what that would mean for him.

Shifting nervously, she looks back at the sleeping guard, doubting that she’ll have time to free Robin and escape with him--and as her eyes fall upon the guard, she notices Robin’s bow and the quiver full of newly-sharpened arrows propped up against the wall just behind him.

Her skin prickles as she turns toward the guard and she swallows hard as she takes the first step--and then, as she takes another and then another, she feels herself growing bolder and less afraid. Beneath her breath, she starts to recite a prayer for protection--speaking in a language she hasn’t been allowed to speak since her marriage--and when the guard begins to stir and his eyelids flutter, her voice only gets louder.

Regina keeps moving toward him and the prayer begins to sound like a chant, and his eyes open fully, they fill with a false realization that she’s somehow possessed with demonic spirits--and to her great relief, he seems rooted in his place. Her heart pounds in her chest as the guard grips the arms of his chair, his eyes growing wide as she begins to mutter  _witch_ in a voice that’s nothing less than terrified--and instead of giving in to her own fear, she takes advantage of his and lets a smile pull onto her lips.

“That’s right,” she tells him. “That’s  _exactly_ what I am.”

Reaching across him she holds her breath, fully aware that the man before her is big enough to overpower her and if he merely grabbed hold of her, he’d be able to push her back and it’d all be over for her--but he doesn't do that. Instead, he just cowers fearfully in his place as she takes hold of Robin’s quiver; and then, keeping an eye on him, she also claims the bow.

“Don’t move,” she whispers cooly. “Not a bit.”

“Don’t kill--”

Her brow arches. “That’s a funny request,” she tells him, her voice sounding far more confident than she feels. “Considering the circumstances and what  _you_ were going to do to  _me_.”

“I am a good, God-fearing--”

“Stop.” It surprises her that she does, and as she pulls away with the bow and quiver, she catches a glimpse of the key ring tied to his waist with a silky ribbon. “I’d be willing to barter.”

“B-barter?”

“Your life for those keys.”

“B-but--”

“You’re married, right?”

“Don’t hurt--”

“Give me the keys.”

This time, he nods, his fingers trembling as he fumbles with the ribbon as he pulls the ring away from his body and hands it to her. Swallowing hard, she takes it and feels a bit of relief to see it only holds three keys. Backing up, she keeps a watchful eye on him, fully aware that as soon as her back is too him he could easily become more daring--so, with her own hands trembling, she pulls an arrow from the quiver.

It’s harder to do than she once imagined, but as the rattling sound of a carriage grows closer, she realizes that it’s now or never. If she does nothing Robin will likely die, and it’s not like she’ll actually kill this man… just… delay him.

Drawing the arrow back against her cheek, tears fill her eyes--and then as the rattling becomes louder, the guard begins to babble. He apologizes and and he pleads--and somehow, that only succeeds in infuriating her. No one listened when she cried, just as no one listened to the cries of a dozen women who hadn’t done anything wrong, but nonetheless died; and no one listened to Robin’s pleas--and unlike Robin and the others, this man wasn’t innocent. He’d aided death and torture, and he hadn’t cared about the lives he ruined. He didn’t care about the motherless children left behind or the young girls whose lives were abruptly cut short--and as she considered that, she found it much easier to pull back the arrow and as she released it, she watched the guard’s eyes widen.

Momentarily, she wondered what he was thinking or if he felt any remorse--but the wondering was fleeting. She didn’t care, and as she let the arrow snap forward, she didn’t wait to see where it struck him; she just knew the blow would not be a fatal one.

Regina ran toward the stocks as the rattling carriage drew closer and she smiled wistfully as she looked at Robin. His head was slouched to the side and he a little blood trickled from his mouth, and in other circumstances, she might consider death a better option than this--but not today.

“Hey…”

“Regina, what--”

Stooping down in front of him, she lets her hand coast up his stubbly cheek--and as his blue eyes turned up to meet hers, she leans in and presses a quick kiss to his lips. “I’m saving you.”

“You shouldn’t--”

“Can you argue later?” she asks, her brows arching as she rises up, keeping an eye on the road as she tries to first key--and when it doesn’t fit, she tries another.

In the distance, she could hear a voice calling commands to a horse--and her breath catches in her throat. They were just around the bend and--

The lock clicks open and her eyes widen in surprise--and then, as she stands up, she opens the stock and Robin is able to stand.

He looks a bit wobbly as he straightens himself out. “Are you  _insane_?”

“No, but the guard in there is under the impression I’m possessed by some sort of evil, voodoo spirit,” she murmurs easily, looking between Robin and the road and watching as the horse and carriage comes into view. “And that’s really no way to thank me for saving your ass.”

“I believe you’re just returning the favor,” he retorts, laughing softly as he reaches for her--and together, they steal off into the woods and, this time, running to their freedom.


End file.
